The Shaping of Stone
by OxEyed
Summary: Historical AU, France and the Crusades. Mahad believes he has been called to a life of contemplation. Seth disagrees. But how do you choose between your king and your God? Headdressshipping SetxMahado . For contest.


A/N: Since this is an AU, some liberties have been taken, most notably Isis and Mahad's relationship. I also kept their Egyptian names, though realistically both Isis and Mahad would have changed their names upon entering a monastery.

I don't feel like a disclaimer is necessary, but just in case, I'll point out that the views and opinions of the characters do not necessarily reflect my own, and this story does not aim to support or decry the Crusades, monasticism, Christianity, etc.

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><p><strong>The Shaping of Stone<strong>

_Architecture began like all writing. It was first an alphabet. A stone was planted upright and it was a letter, and each letter was a hieroglyph, and on every hieroglyph rested a group of ideas, like the capital on the column._

-Victor Hugo, _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_

The rain was cold and thick and icy, sleet sticking in Seth's cloak and his mare's mane as he continued recklessly down the rocky trail. The men in Dijon had told him that the weather was too poor to continue, but he hadn't wanted to stop when he was so close. He knew the abbey was somewhere at the end of this road, but in the darkness and rain it was difficult to see anything. It was entirely possible he'd passed it already; it was impossible to tell in the darkness.

His breath misted in front of his face as he pulled his cloak closer around his body and peered futilely into the night. He had no choice but to continue along this road; if he turned around he'd no doubt get himself lost. He urged his mare forward, ignoring her huffs of complaint, and hunched his shoulders against the rain.

To distract himself from the wet and the cold, he focused on the road in front of him and any dark shapes on the horizon that might have been buildings. Only the dim shapes of trees revealed themselves in the bleak landscape. It had been a hard winter, a cold one, but it was by no means the hardest winter he'd suffered.

_He hadn't seen it coming; he'd been traveling back and forth through the lines, trying to keep an eye on His Majesty and the rear guard at the same time. He hadn't noticed that the vanguard were too far ahead, that no one had any idea where they were. Even if he had noticed, he might not have thought anything of it; the vanguard wasn't his responsibility and the mountain path was far too narrow and steep for them for the whole army to stay in sight at every moment. _

_Still, he should have known that this road was the prime target for a surprise attack. He shouldn't have been surprised when arrows suddenly downed three of the men in front of him, when horses started to scream and the roar of rocks and men and beasts drowned out every shouted order Seth tried to issue to the chaos around him. Only one phrase was audible, shouted first by a stray knight and then echoing along the entire gorge, the words striking fear into the hearts of those who should have been courageous:_

"_The Turks!"_

A large shape finally appeared, rising darkly out of the mist, and Seth steered his horse toward it, disregarding the path entirely and forging forward into a fallow field. The ground was thick with mud, but his mare continued gamely on, sensing that shelter was close.

The darkness was so deep Seth nearly ran into the wall before he saw it, and he traveled alongside it until he found the gate and the gatehouse. He dismounted and banged on the door until he heard the porter's faint call of "Thanks be to God."

After a few moments, the door creaked open, and an elderly nun peered toward him. "Oh my," she muttered when she saw him, pulling the door fully open. "Come in, come in."

"My mount?" Seth asked. "Is the stable nearby?"

The porter nodded her head and reached out to take the reins from him. She disappeared into the night, and Seth stepped inside the gatehouse, leaving the door open for the porter's return.

She came back a few minutes later and closed the door behind her, enveloping the room in darkness. She hurried toward a nearby coffer and lit a candle. The wind howled, and Seth shuddered, pulling his cloak off. The ice in it had started to melt, and it was soaking.

"St. Scholastica be with us tonight," she said, "What brings you to our abbey so late?"

"I have a message for Sister Isis."

"Sister—? No, no, Monseiur. It's _Mother _Isis, now."

"Is that so?" Seth said, uninterested.

The nun tsked, wavering back and forth on her feet like the flame of the candle she was holding. "It's such a dreadful night," she said. "Shall I fetch the abbess for you?"

Seth understood her underlying question; was what he had to say so urgent he'd wake the abbess and break the traditional night silence of the abbey?

He was tempted to say yes: he'd been traveling all day and wanted to get this over with, but he was also cold and wet and exhausted. His errand had already waited several years. One more night couldn't hurt.

"I'll speak with her in the morning," he said. The nun immediately hurried into an adjacent room, where Seth could hear her speaking with someone. She returned with another, younger nun.

"This is Sister Margaret," she said. "Our guest-mistress."

"Peace upon you," Sister Margaret said, bowing.

"And you," Seth said, returning the gesture. "I am Monseiur le Chevalier de Deuil."

She blinked at the title, but maintained her calm demeanor. "Please allow me to show you to our guest quarters."

She led Seth down a long dark stone hall and up a flight of stairs. Except for the echoes of their footsteps, the monastery was absolutely silent. Seth knew it was likely this quiet even during the day; restraint of speech was a basic tenet of monasticism. Having been raised in a monastery very similar to this one, he had expected the silence, but after an absence of several years he still found the change jarring.

The cell Sister Margaret brought him to was small, barely big enough to hold the two of them. Seth was gratified to see a bed. Surprisingly luxurious, but he wasn't going to complain.

Sister Margaret brought him him some wine from the guest kitchen. "Would you like anything else?" she asked. "Perhaps a meal?"

Seth assured the sister he was fine for the night and she departed, clearly relieved. Seth sipped at the wine, allowing the deep flavors to sink warmly through his chest. When he was finished, he took off his outer tunic and stretched out in the bed, falling quickly into a dark, dreamless sleep.

_Seth twisted in his saddle to see the unmistakable glint of armor. They had retreated into a narrow ravine, but there was no room for any maneuvers and the vanguard had disappeared altogether. _

_Mahad put a hand on his arm and pointed frantically forward. It was too loud for Seth to hear his words, but he understood immediately. In this small area, His Majesty would be defenseless. He urged his horse onward, cursing when the rough terrain forced her to lose her footing and the path to become dangerously unstable. He would have dismounted and continued on foot, but the press of men around him made any movement forward impossible. _

_Mahad was shouting again, but Seth couldn't hear anything over the never-ending screams of men and horses. They had crags behind them and a ravine before them, and the approaching Turkish soldiers were forcing men, horses, and supplies off the edge and into the abyss. _

_How had they been so foolish?_

_Suddenly there was a movement in front of him, and Seth could see the king, climbing up the cliffside, three Turks directly behind him. There was no sign of the rest of the Royal Guard. In desperation, Seth forced his horse through the soldiers in front of him, trying to get past the press of men and to His Majesty, and then he felt himself being pulled back. _

_He suffered a moment of panic as he found himself in freefall, his footing lost and the sky and the mountains rushing though his vision like a whirlwind, and then he was on his back, the vibrating clang of armor against rock the only sensation he could register for a solid second and then he saw Mahad, fallen beside him. Seth could see the arrow jutting out of his surcoat, but he didn't understand what it meant until Mahad reached forward and pulled him closer, so close their helmets scraped against each other. _

_Mahad spoke faintly, but in that moment his words were the only thing Seth could hear._

"_Protect the King."_

He woke up to the toll of bells. Recognizing them as the call to Vigils, the nightly prayer period, Seth allowed himself to fall back asleep. As a guest, he had no obligation to join the nuns in prayer.

The second time the bells tolled was at daybreak for Lauds, and Seth rose. The monastery was cold, and he donned his outer robes. He knew the abbess would be unavailable until after Lauds, but he needed the time to think.

Earlier than he expected, he heard the tapping of feet in the hall and he rose to see Sister Margaret, accompanied a woman who could only be the abbess. She was young, only a few years older than Seth, but she was calm as she bowed to him.

"The blessings of God be upon you," she said. "I apologize for your immodest welcome last night. Would you like to join us in prayer?"

"There is no need," Seth said stiffly. "I only came to deliver a message."

Unfazed, the abbess nodded. "In that case, please join me in the cloister."

Seth followed her down the hall and through the building. He saw several nuns in passing who glanced at him curiously, but not once did he hear one of them speak.

The cloister was sparse, in keeping with the Cistercian tradition of austerity, but Seth knew they found the stark columns and simple stonework attractive. He personally found it plain, but since the war the Cistercian style had come back into fashion and Seth had no desire to verbalize his opinion.

Once they were in the open walkway, Seth could see that the rain had stopped, though the entire courtyard was wreathed in a thick fog. He'd have to wait for visibility to improve before he could begin his journey back to Paris.

The abbess sat on a bench in an enclave overlooking the courtyard and patted the seat, inviting Seth to join her.

"What is your message, Monseiur de Deuil?" she said, and Seth remembered his purpose.

"We've actually met, long ago," he said, sitting down. "My Christian name is Seth."

"I remember" The abbess said softly. "You were a friend of Mahad's."

"Yes," Seth said. "I've just returned from the Crusade."

He noted the almost imperceptible sag of the abbess's shoulders, the dimming of her expression. "So he's dead, then."

Seth nodded. He was unsurprised that she already knew Mahad was dead. Many knights had died in what people were calling a futile attempt to regain the Holy Land. As the abbess stared unblinkingly out over the courtyard, Seth felt obligated to give her the rest of his message.

"Mother," Seth said, and the abbess turned back to look at him. "Before he died, Mahad asked me to tell you that he did not regret his choice."

_The wound hadn't been serious, not at first. After the battle was over, he went back and found Mahad, strapping him to his horse and taking him through the mountains to the army's temporary camp. They were busy trying to regroup, tending their wounded and constructing a new travel route to make up for all the supplies that they'd lost in the gorge._

_But the arrow had poisoned his blood, and Mahad's fever only grew worse. Seth came back every day to find his skin hotter, his eyes brighter, his words more slurred. _

_Mahad had insisted, right at the beginning, that Seth leave him to take care of the king, but the king was safe with the vanguard. Seth continued to come back._

"His choice?" The abbess said. And then some light came back into her eyes. "Oh," she said, looking at Seth with newfound gentleness. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"If I may ask—"

"Did he tell you?" the abbess asked. "That he knew he would die?"

Seth's fists involuntarily clenched in his lap. No one can predict their own death. He stared the abbess down, willing himself to relax. "What do you mean?"

The abbess smiled. "Many years ago, before I entered the order, I was granted a vision. I dreamed that St. Mary came down from heaven and told me that France will one day lose Jerusalem, and that my brother would die in the war for it. This was many years before the fall of Edessa. Mahad was still training for the knighthood at that time."

Seth remembered. They had trained together, he and Mahad and the king, and they had all firmly believed that they lived in the most blessed nation under Heaven. Then the Muslims took Edessa and everything changed.

The abbess continued. "I wrote him about my dream. I was studying in a convent in Paris at the time, and I had to beg the abbess for permission to send the letter, but she allowed me when I told her what I had seen. I begged my brother to leave off seeking the knighthood and to save himself from possible death.

"It wasn't until I saw him a year later that he told me he had also had a vision, one from St. Benedict. Benedict had called him to a life of monasticism."

Seth remembered that, too. He hadn't believed Mahad. Vision or not, Mahad was born to be more than a monk.

The abbess continued. "The saint also told him that if he ever abandoned his calling, he would certainly die. I told him of my plans to take vows at a Cistercian abbey, and he agreed to do the same. It wasn't until several months later that I received word he had abandoned his vows to be a knight in the Crusade."

Seth stared at the pattern of stones in the walkway. They were the same color as the white habits the Cistercians wore. Every other order wore black.

"That's quite a story," he said.

The abbess looked at him, her eyebrows raised. Then she smiled. "You don't believe me," she said.

"On the contrary, Mother Isis," Seth said. "I'm loathe to dismiss the word of an abbess. But why would Mahad leave the abbey if he believed it would kill him?"

"I think I know," the abbess said. "But perhaps you could tell me what you said to him to make him change his mind."

When Seth glanced at her, startled, she waved a hand, the thick cloth of her habit fluttering in the morning chill. "I was told it was a knight named Seth who took Mahad away from the abbey. I can only assume it was you."

"It was," Seth agreed. When the abbess only nodded, clearly waiting for his story, he sighed and began to speak.

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><p>It had taken him two days to get to Auxurre from Paris, and from there it was a good hour's ride to the abbey of Pontigny, but the road was smooth and the weather had been good. On either side of him, the fields were green with young wheat which stood absolutely still in the summer heat. The only movement was that of his own mount, and Seth had spurred it on, faster, faster, because he was eager to see Mahad and to bring him back to Paris and their king.<p>

When the abbey finally appeared in the trees, the first thing Seth noticed was small it was. From where he was, it only looked to be about two stories tall, long and white and spread out, with a red tiled roof, framed on three sides by the trees. Outside the abbey, there was no indication of the presence of human beings.

He had been told that Cistercians preferred to build their monasteries in the wilderness in order to strengthen the sense of isolation, but this above and beyond what Seth had imagined.

As he rode on, he realized that the abbey was only slightly less plain up close. The rectangular piers and narrow vaults lent the building a sense of elegance, but it was simplistic. Most of it looked newly constructed, and Seth couldn't help comparing it to the newly finished Cathedral of St. Denis.

How could Mahad have chosen this place over the splendor of Paris?

The porter seemed hesitant to fetch Mahad for him without permission from the Abbot, which irked Seth to no end. He hadn't traveled all this way to be stopped because of a strict monastic rule. He harangued the porter until the belabored monk finally trotted off to find Mahad, who, he claimed, would be in the library.

Seth waited in the courtyard for several minutes before he saw Mahad, clad in the traditional Cistercian white habit, exit the building and come down the long stone path toward him. Despite the habit, his head hadn't been shaved, which pleased Seth, because it meant that Mahad hadn't taken his vows yet.

Ignoring the elderly monk who no doubt had wanted to keep an eye on their conversation, Seth strode into the cloister and gestured for Mahad to follow him.

Bemused, Mahad followed him to the gardens, where several monks, tending the plants there, looked up and promptly ignored them again. Seth knew that they weren't supposed to talk to guests unless summoned by name.

He turned to Mahad. "Did you receive my letter?"

Mahad raised an eyebrow. "Contact with the outside world is discouraged, Seth. You know that. What was so urgent that you had to come all the way to Pontigny?"

"The war," Seth said. "Did you hear of Abbot Bernard's sermon at Vézelay?"

"I heard that it was a miracle," Mahad said, unperturbed. "The monks have been talking about it."

"Yes, well…" Seth waved a hand impatiently. "The important part is, His Majesty is leading the army to the Holy Land. The Pope has given him his support and Bernard has managed to convince the lords."

"Yes, I've heard."

When Seth glared at his companion, Mahad only sighed. "I entered the abbey with the intention of leaving the life of a knight behind me, Seth. You know that."

"The King needs you," Seth said. "We were his best knights, his closest friends. It's your duty to serve him."

"It was," Mahad said, looking pained. "Now it's my duty to serve God."

The sun was strong, and reflected off the stone pathway with enough force to make Seth to squint. He withheld the urge to wipe away the sweat on his brow and stared instead at the gardening monks. They were weeding turnip and lettuce plants, and had to bend low to the ground to do their work. Beyond them, Seth could see the far side of the cloister and the entrance to the nave.

"To serve the King _is_ to serve God," he said. "Didn't you hear what I just said about the Pope's ordination? We need to prevent the fall of Jerusalem."

"If the king has God's blessing, you will have plenty of recruits," Mahad said. "My service is needed here. I serve the king by first serving God."

"There are different degrees of service," Seth said. "Right now, both God and king need you in their army more than Pontigny needs you in their choir."

Mahad sighed. "I've been called to this abbey, Seth. I'm going to take vows. I can't just leave."

"You haven't taken them yet," Seth said. "You're only a candidate. They'll let you go if I tell them to." He turned back toward the gatehouse. He could see the same monk from before, watching them from a safe distance. "I have the authority of Abbot Suger."

Mahad drew a quick breath and Seth smiled. Mahad wouldn't be impressed with Suger's status or relationship with the King, or even his role as their old tutor, but he _would _want to know about Suger's primary achievement.

"The Abbey of St. Denis," Mahad said. "That's where you've been?"

Seth nodded. "The abbot remembered how well I did in mathematics and architecture when he taught us. I helped him design the abbey."

"I had heard it was finished," Mahad said. "They say it's a masterpiece."

Seth felt a rush of pride. The cathedral was Paris's newest joy. The finest basilica in the world, they were saying. The absolute summit of man's achievement. The only building worthy of celebrating the glory of God. Yes, there were naysayers, the ones who said it was idolatrous and gaudy, but like Abbot Suger argued, if you aren't putting your gold and jewels in the temple of God, where are you putting them?

"I've heard it's beautiful," Mahad said. The longing in his voice was evident.

"It is," Seth said, focusing again on the topic at hand. "And it's where you belong," he said. "Not out here in the middle of nowhere."

"I was called to this, Seth."

"You've said." Seth turned toward his companion. "But you don't want to be here, and we both know it."

Mahad didn't reply. Seth didn't care.

"You aren't fit to be a monk," he said. "You're a scholar, yes. One of the best. But you shouldn't have gone here to write theological treatises on the value of humility. You could have stayed in Paris and still been a scholar. But you didn't and the city is poorer for it. Now the Jerusalem needs you. Would you abandon her as well? For the sake of holiness?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the booming toll of the bells. Seth turned to see the monks in the garden all look up and straighten, brushing their hands on their habits and filing up toward the choir.

"Those are the bells for Vespers," Mahad said from behind him. "I must go." He put a hand on Seth's shoulder. "Stay with us. We can talk again in the morning."

Mutely, Seth nodded. Mahad paused, studying the expression on his companion's face, and then his hand tightened on Seth's shoulder before it dropped away completely.

Seth watched Mahad walk up the path, head bowed and hands properly away under his scapular. He had seen a hint of panic in Mahad's eyes, and knew that his accusations had rung true.

He spent the rest of the evening walking the grounds and contemplating his decision to come to the abbey. He had been convinced that Mahad would agree to join him immediately. Seth knew Mahad was a spiritual man—all scholars were—but he had thought that spirituality could only drive a man toward the Holy Land, not away from it. Hadn't Bernard of Clairvaux, the patron of the Cistercian order, preached the Crusades so convincingly that armies were running over with volunteers?

Yes, some were reserved, but Seth knew that it was with far more reason. The King had declared his intention to lead the Crusades, and many were worried about leaving the country in the hands of a regent for what could be years. But Seth was sure that as long as the king was doing God's work, nothing could go wrong in France. He had heard rumors going around Paris. People were saying that this war would be the last, that the king was chosen by God to be "King of the Last Days" and lead Europe into the last Millennium of Christ.

With a cause like that, how could Mahad say no?

The next morning, first chance he could, he tracked his friend down and explained this all to him in a speech he had spent the entire night rehearsing, but when he was done, Mahad only looked overwhelmed.

"Seth," he said, gesturing upwards. They were in the nave, and the high vaulted ceilings made their voices echo throughout the large room. "Have you heard the phrase 'this will destroy that'?"

"I have," Seth said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Mahad's expression didn't change as he pointed toward the tall curving columns. "This abbey may have just been built, but we had to tear down the forest to build it. Whenever you build anything, you start by destroying something else. If France wants to regain the Holy Land, she must sacrifice time and men and perhaps even her King." He dropped his arms and turned to Seth. "You want me to join you? First, tell me what are you are willing to sacrifice."

Seth glanced around the nave. It was so much smaller, so much less ornate that St. Denis. Again he was filled with the same certainty he had felt yesterday. Mahad didn't belong in a place like this.

"The question isn't about me, is it?" he said. "I've already made my choice. You're the one who's afraid to risk everything for King and country."

"Fear has nothing to do with it!" Mahad's voice was strong, but Seth knew that he had already won.

"You can still be a monk when we return," Seth said. "Or you can join the Knights Templar and be both. You have options."

He watched as Mahad approached the choir and studied the altar there. When he spoke, his voice was soft with an emotion Seth couldn't put a name to, but had felt many times. It was the desperation of completion, the yawning emptiness that came with finishing a great work. When St. Denis had finished construction, many who saw it found themselves overwhelmed with joy and adoration.

Not Seth. He had stared at the rising spires of the basilica, and he had wept.

"Very well," Mahad said, turning toward Seth. "I will tell the abbot."

Seth put a hand on Mahad's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "His Majesty will be glad to see you again."

"And you?" Mahad said, reaching up to take Seth's hand in his. "Is this what you want?"

"Of course," Seth said. "You are a good knight, Mahad."

The noonday bells began to ring, deafening the both of them and compressing the room into just the space between their bodies. Mahad looked Seth in the eyes and nodded, his jaw tightening in determination. His lips moved, but Seth couldn't hear anything but the clanging of the bells. He leaned forward to hear better, but Mahad only shook his head and dropped his hand, tucking it into his habit and leading Seth out to the cloister.

Behind them, the bells continued to ring, taunting Seth with the certainty that he had just lost something of great value.

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><p>"<em>Seth…" Mahad's voice was deep with agony, and still Seth could not look away. He brought a hand to Mahad's face, frowning when he found the skin burning hot. But Mahad's eyes were clear, and he raised his hand to curl his fingers around Seth's.<em>

"_Seth," he said. "Tell about St. Denis." His eyes fluttered closed, and Seth leaned forward involuntarily, but Mahad took another deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me what it looks like."_

_So Seth did. He told Mahad about the nave, large enough to hold a crowd, with black iron statues holding aloft the alter, the marble columns that formed archways to draw the eye toward heaven and the clerestory windows that bathed the choir in what Abbot Suger had called a "crown of light". Outside, it had spires and flying buttresses and tall stained-glass windows made by the finest French artisans, each depicting a different Biblical event. Every possible enclave was filled with sculptures of the prophets and the saints, and there was even a statue of St. Denis himself, who, when the Romans tried to behead him, picked up his head and carried it to Paris, preaching all the way. He told Mahad about the kings who had been buried there, and the kings who would be buried there, the marvelous angels carved on the pillars, the jeweled chalices that adorned the altar of God. He told him about the gold filigree on the alter, and the crucifix in the center of the choir, perfect in its ravaged beauty._

_He spoke for several minutes, and when he was done, Mahad opened his eyes one more time. Seth answered his question before he needed to ask it._

"_Heaven," he told his friend sternly, "Is undoubtedly more beautiful than any basilica, temple, or cathedral on this sphere." He put his free hand over Mahad's and leaned forward to press his lips to his forehead, whispering against his sweat-dampened hair. "More beautiful than even the Holy Land."_

_And he felt Mahad's last breath, soft and hot against his neck, and Seth looked down to watch Mahad smile and die._

The abbess lifted her head. Her eyes were bright, but she did not cry.

"My brother was capable of great love," she said. "When he entered the abbey, I'm sure he never planned to leave it again. But I knew he would. Our Lord Jesus Christ, as well as many of the saints, died for love. I knew my brother would do the same."

"He and the King were very close," Seth agreed. "He was wounded trying to protect him."

The abbess twisted in her seat to face him. She brushed a hand over her habit and smiled. "The King was not the one who convinced my brother to leave the abbey," she said. "He was not the one my brother died for."

Seth said nothing. There was nothing more to say.

She put a hand over his and shook her head. "May the Peace of God be with you."

She stood. Above them, the bells started to toll, their melody filling the air and rising through the dim cold light of the cloister into the sky, cutting through the waves of fog just like the wind might foam on the surface of the ocean, or how the sun would finally break on the pale ivory stones of Jerusalem.

**End**

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><p>This story takes place approximately between 1146 and 1149 AD, the time period of the Second Crusade. I tried to make everything as accurate as possible, though it was hard to find a lot of information on this time period and (several) creative liberties were taken. The most notable of these is the phrase "this will destroy that", which is from Victor Hugo's <em>Hunchback of Notre-Dame<em>, in reference to the invention of the printing press and architecture.

If you're interested in all the history behind everything, I talk about it in this entry on my LiveJournal: http : / oxeyed . livejournal . com / 8714 . html


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